The Whispering of Bones by Judith Rock Page B

on the floor as he followed Damiot to a bench toward the back of the nave. As Jesuits, students, and people from the neighborhood gathered for the first Mass of the day, Charles knelt on the stone tiles and prayed for Père Dainville. When that prayer was finished, he stayed on his knees, not praying, but thinking about going to the Novice House later and trying to see Amaury de Corbet. And about what they would or wouldn’t talk about. Then the priest celebrating the Mass came in, everyone stood, and Charles tried to give himself up to the mystery of God coming to meet him in the bread and wine.
    When the Mass ended and the neighborhood people were going out the west door into the rue St. Jacques, a loud woman’s voice made Charles and Damiot turn to see who was being so heedless of reverence and courtesy. Two women were halted just inside the door. The better-dressed one was shaking a finger in the other’s face.
    â€œOf course you may not! You spend enough time in church. And you have work to do! Why else are you living in my house, I’d like to know?”
    The scolded woman, whose face was half hidden by a scarf draped around her throat and head, turned sharply and disappeared into the street. The other woman, suddenly aware that everyone was watching her, drew her long cloak of silky gray wool closer and stalked after her companion.
    Charles and Damiot went with the rest of the Jesuits and students out the chapel’s always-open north door, into the Cour d’honneur. The sun had still not reached the rooftops, and the college’s age-blackened walls were crusted with frost. Charles pulled his cloak collar tightly around his neck as they crunched across the gravel toward the fathers’ refectory.
    â€œHave you heard what happened to Père Dainville?” he asked Damiot.
    The priest nodded. “On the way to supper last night, Père Montville told us he’d been taken ill. Apoplexy, he said. And that you were with him.”
    â€œHe’d asked me to go with him to the Carmelites’ crypt chapel—he’s grown very frail, you know, and needs help now. But he wasn’t only taken ill,” Charles said grimly. He told Damiot about the murdered man. “I think seeing him is what brought on the apoplexy.”
    Damiot crossed himself and gave Charles a long look. “I’ve known men who seem to attract mosquitoes and fleas, but until you, I’ve never known a man who attracted dead bodies. Though it’s a talent that seems very useful to the head of our Paris police,” he added dryly. “Lieutenant-Général La Reynie has had more than a little reason to be very glad of you.” He raised an ironic eyebrow. “Though that cannot be said for some of our Jesuit superiors.”
    Charles was in no mood for Damiot’s humor. “If Père Dainville dies, whoever killed the man in the crypt will have two deaths to pay for. And I would gladly help La Reynie scour Paris for him! Though you’re right about the superiors. I’m not likely to have the chance to help La Reynie this time.”
    â€œI wouldn’t mind helping him, either,” Damiot said, earning a startled glance from Charles. “Though what help I’d be is open to question.” That drew a bark of laughter from Charles, who could not imagine the fastidious Damiot in tandem with the blunt police chief.
    â€œSo you’ve been told in so many words that you won’t have the chance to help La Reynie again?”
    â€œIt’s unlikely I’d get permission, now that I’ve started theology study,” Charles said lightly, sidestepping the question.
    They went through the archway into the fathers’ court, where the fathers’ refectory and most of the Jesuit living quarters were.
    â€œWhy am I sure there’s more to it than that?” Damiot said quietly.
    Charles sighed. “Because at heart you’re the village